Grace gave her a red two-wheeler for her birthday, with a rack on the back that you could clip things onto, hold your books with, and it had pink and magenta streamers pouring forth from the plastic grips of the handlebars, and one day right after her birthday, Charles said he would teach her to ride. He said, I’ll hold on to the rack in the back and walk along beside you. Just pedal and steer; I won’t let you fall. That’s all he kept saying—just pedal and steer, I won’t let you fall.
The next day, he came over after breakfast. He was tall and stooped and had gray hair that was receding at the temples, and he was handsome in the same way her father would have been if her father hadlived long enough to grow old. Even though he had gotten too much sun over the years, hiking, sailing, bicycling with his wife Grace when she was still alive, Rosie thought he was very handsome for an old man. He looked like a retired astronaut.
They went out on the sunlit sidewalk together. She got on the new red bike and put her feet on the pedals, and he took hold of the rack and she started pedaling down the sidewalk. She felt so tight that her elbows were locked and even her knees were locked as much as they could be since she still had to try and pedal. She didn’t really trust him, but he kept walking alongside her while she wobbled down the sidewalk. “You’re doing fine,” he kept saying, “I won’t let go. I won’t let you fall.” They went all the way to the end of the block, turned around, and pedaled back home. She kept checking to make sure he was there behind her, and he was.
“Let’s do it again tomorrow, Rosini,” he said when they were back in front of her house. She didn’t really want to. She thought maybe taking a few days off in between lessons would be a good idea, but he was there the next morning when she got up; he was in the kitchen with her mother, drinking coffee, reading the paper, waiting for her. He smelled of powder, like the medicine powder you might sprinkle between your toes, and he smelled like clothes in the dryer. He always wore the same things, khaki or corduroy trousers, worn plaid shirts, moccasins. She went over and leaned into him at the kitchen table while he told her mother how beautifully she had done on the bike the day before.
This time they went four blocks, two blocks away from home and then back. He held on to the rack, and she was still terrified. He kept saying, “Just pedal and steer. I won’t let you go. I won’t let you fall.”
The third day he was in the kitchen again with her mother when Rosie woke up. He was wearing a red plaid shirt. They went outside, and she got on the bike and started pedaling. He took hold of the rack. She was feeling more confident, a little looser, and she picked up the pace a little, smiling finally, and he had to walk very quickly, almost trotting, to keep up with her. Then she started pedaling really fast, and after a minute she risked the quickest look over her shoulder to check in with him since he must have nearly been running, but he was gone, and she looked way back, and he was a whole block away, so far away that his shirt looked pink, and he was waving to her.
Now, pedaling home as the sky darkened, she remembered howmuch fun Charles had always been before he got sick. These days he would just open his eyes and smile at her from his bed when they went to visit him. “Is Charles dying?” she’d asked Elizabeth the last time they’d been there.
“Oh, honey. Yes; yes he is.”
E LIZABETH was standing at the kitchen window when Rosie and Simone pulled up on their bikes. She opened the window and called out a greeting, but Rosie either didn’t hear or was choosing to ignore her. Simone smiled and waved. Elizabeth waved back. Finally Rosie deigned to look up at her and jutted out her chin in greeting. Then she looked away. Elizabeth sighed, shook her head, and closed the window. Having a teenage daughter was one’s